


Sartorial Infidelity

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [3]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: During a rewatch of The Green Mill Murder, there was much appreciation for Phryne in Vic's jumper. During a Murder Under the Mistletoe rewatch, there was much appreciation for Jack's jumper. The only logical solution was to combine the two for PFF...





	

After an incident with the rose bush, Jack had declared Phryne’s gardener to be an “incompetent moron that shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred yards of pruning shears” and had taken it upon himself to fix the man’s work at any opportunity. Which usually meant that he could be found in the garden on a Sunday morning, Phryne still in bed and Mr. Butler at church. It was a moment of solitude in an often busy household and he appreciated it immensely.

He was in the midst of deadheading some roses near the kitchen door, his mind engaged on a variety of other topics--Abbotsford was doing well this season, he need to requisition a new tea urn for the station, it was Jane’s birthday next week and he had to stop by the bookshop to see if her gift had come in--when he heard a noise behind him. Turning, he tried very hard not to gawp gormlessly.

Phryne was standing in her garden, hair still mussed from sleep, two steaming cups of--he sniffed--coffee in her hands, and wearing his jumper. Only his jumper, if you discounted the woolen socks she’d donned to protect her feet. 

“Miss Fisher?”

“Good morning, Jack.”

Several conversation starters crossed his mind, not least of all “Are you trying to kill me?” Because, it turned out, that there was one thing more lethal than lingerie, and she had found it. 

Her legs looked impossibly long, her neck impossibly ravishable, the jumper impossibly intimate; she glided towards him and handed him one of the coffees, capturing the shawl collar with her newly freed hand and pulling it towards her nose to smell it.

Jack groaned involuntarily, and she looked up at him with completely guileless eyes.

“House of Fleuri?” he asked, cupping his coffee with both hands so his palms were warmed. 

“No. I’m afraid I’m stepping out behind Simone’s back with a new designer.”

He chuckled and took a sip of his coffee.

“Sartorial infidelity is a serious crime, Miss Fisher.”

“Do you want to take it in for evidence?” she asked, tugging the hem that tiny bit higher.

He reached over, taking her coffee from her hands, and gave her a small smile as he took a few steps to place both cups on the edge of the window ledge. Then he crossed back to her, hands sliding up the back of her thighs and beneath the hem as he cupped her (exceptionally pleasant) derriere and pulled her close.

“Actually, Miss Fisher,” he said, turning her slightly and moving her back to come to rest again the little wrought iron cafe table, “I rather think that bringing you in red-handed is to our mutual advantage.” 

His hands slid up to her hips and she perched on the table, tucking the back of the jumper beneath her bottom and allowing the front to rise. 

“You’ll never get me to talk,” she laughed lightly, leaning back on her arms.

Jack pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin directly behind her ear in response.

“What if I were to... “ his lips trailed lower, his teeth just grazing her carotid artery, “... make it worth your while?”

She exhaled softly, a smile that was both content and salacious crossing her face, then reached for the fastenings of his work trousers.

“I woke up in bed, all alone,” she purred, slipping a hand beneath the moleskin to cup him. “And I was so--” a squeeze “--desperate that I could barely keep my hands to myself. In fact, I _didn’t_. And once that first frantic urge was sated, I thought of you--” her hands tugged down his trousers and trunks, then grasped him again “--and realised that I ought to--ohhhh, darling, yes.”

He was inside her, not yet moving; she pulsed her hips to press against him.

“You ought to what, Miss Fisher?” he whispered against the shell of her ear.

She shivered, and Jack began to move with long, sure strokes.

“I really ought to wake up early more often,” she sighed. 

Jack grinned teasingly and scraped his teeth against her earlobe. 

“But when would I get the gardening in if you did?”


End file.
